Love Starts with Elle(8)
“Are you sad?” Julianne leaned against the desk, crossing her arms. “About selling?”
“A little, but”—Elle smiled—“the things we do for love.”
“Seems like you just opened this place, Elle.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Julianne walked the box of paints over to the front door and set it with the pile of stuff to be carted over to Elle’s over-the-garage studio. “I can’t see you in big ole Texas, living in the middle of a place with no trees or rivers or creek beds. You’re the quintessential lowcountry girl. Parties at Bodean Good’s place, spending summers on the sand bar, hosting oyster roasts and lowcountry boils in the fall.”
“Guess I’ll have to learn to barbeque and wear a cowboy hat.” Elle picked up an empty box, not sure what she needed it for, then set it back on the floor. “Love isn’t always easy, Jules. But if Jeremiah is going to be in Dallas, so am I.”
“You don’t think turning thirty isn’t motivating you to jump into a serious commitment too fast?” Julianne kicked at the boxes, avoiding Elle’s eye.
“You sound like Caroline when I e-mailed her the news. She asked the same question. No, I don’t. I’d given up on engagement or marriage before thirty. Burned my Operation Wedding Day plan in the chimenea, remember?” The slight edge in Elle’s voice came from irritation that both her best friend and her baby sister doubted her.
Julianne held up her hands. “Don’t get snippy.”
Elle started for the loft, trying to dig up some excitement about the days ahead, but only finding weariness. “Come on, help me finish clearing out upstairs.”
She hadn’t seen Jeremiah in over a month except on video chat. While they talked and e-mailed daily, he was harried and plagued with senior pastoritis while she was burdened with wedding planning, gallery selling, cottage renting, and all the pangs associated with uprooting a life.
Julianne ran up behind her. “You do love him, right?”
Elle kicked aside a pile of empty boxes sitting at the top of the stairs. “Good grief, Jules. No, I loath him and on our wedding night, he’ll die mysteriously and I’ll inherit all of his preacher’s wealth. Of course I love him. And would you please remember all of this questioning the next time I drill you about something and you flash me your palm.”
Jules tugged a thick black trash bag from the box. “I ask one, maybe two questions. You ask a hundred. So what do you want to do with all the papers in the filing cabinet.”
“Toss them.”
The sisters fell into a working silence, clearing away the last of Elle’s gallery days. It was the culmination of a long list of duties.
Jeremiah’s proposal had led to a manic Monday-before-Christmas with Mama, trying to nail down as many wedding details as possible before he left for Dallas. Guest list. Tuxes. Groomsmen’s gifts. Rehearsal dinner information. Limo to drive Elle to the church. Time, date, and location of the wedding. Reception ideas. Food choices.
On Christmas evening, after the family dinner, while everyone dozed on couches and lounge chairs, Jeremiah drew Elle away for a long walk.
The night was clear, unusually cold, and Jeremiah cuddled her close as they walked, his hand low on the curve of her hip.
They talked about the upcoming months, the stress of being apart, planning a wedding, finding a home to buy in Dallas, the demand of being a senior pastor at 3:16 Metro Church.
It all seemed dreamy and unreal to Elle now, standing in the center of the loft.
“Elle, do you want to keep these?” Jules held up two canisters of brushes.
“Take them to the studio.” She’d bought them the summer she lived in New York and attended classes at the Student Art League, the summer she came to a realization about her talent.
She came home and opened the gallery.
Dumping a pile of art magazines into the trash, Elle’s thoughts drifted back to Jeremiah and Christmas.
She could still hear the rhythm of their heels scraping against the pavement until they arrived in front of the Baxters’. Jer stopped, eyes roaming their Christmas-light extravaganza.
“I understand.”
“I’ve been thinking about your cottage and the gallery, Elle. You’re going to have to sell the gallery. You can’t run it from Dallas.”
The directness of his summation startled her. But she knew he was right. “I thought I’d pretend I could.”
He’d hugged her close and kissed her forehead. “On the other hand, why not keep the cottage? Rent it out. It’d be a nice investment.”
On Christmas night, Elle realized how much everything was about to change. As much as she wanted to be with Jeremiah, leaving would be hard.
“I’m going to miss you,” Julianne said now, without provocation.
Elle glanced around to see her sitting on a pile of art books. “I’m going to miss you too. And Rio. Daddy and Mama, and our three motley sisters.”
“You’ve been my sanity at times.” Julianne’s eyes glistened when she looked at Elle. “I’ll always be so grateful for the night you went with me to tell Mama and Daddy about Rio.”
“It was a hard night, but a good one.”
Twenty-two-year-old Julianne, sobbing, confessing she was pregnant, father unknown.
“Elle?” a male voice called from the ground floor, his voice echoing and bouncing. “Baby, you here?”